Page 44 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

She turned it, the lock shuddering open, and we stepped into a world draped with dust and cobwebs.

The attic stretched the length of the house, rafters black with age, floorboards creaking underfoot. There were boxes everywhere, labeled and unlabeled, some stacked to the beams, others toppled or half-empty, their contents spilling out in drifts of old fabric and brittle paper. Light filtered through a dormer window that opened at the far end, casting everything in pale gray as the rain slammed down in a sold sheet.

I watched Eden take it in, her nose wrinkling at the must, her eyes scanning the chaos with something like delight.

"This is incredible," she said. "It's like a time capsule for hoarders."

"It's a graveyard," I replied, but she was already plunging ahead.

She crouched by a trunk, then hesitated and looked at me, as if for permission. I gave a dismissive wave of my hand.

Her grin was so wide I worried she’d pull a cheek muscle as she lifted the lid. Inside, old letters, a handful of medals, a lock of blond hair tied with blue ribbon.

"Whose?" she asked, holding up the ribbon.

I hesitated. "My grandmother's."

She turned it over in her palm, gentle, as if afraid it would vanish. "Do you miss her?"

The question was too sharp. I deflected. "She was a tyrant. Ran the family estate like a military campaign. She made my father look like a kitten."

Eden smiled. "You liked her, though."

I tried not to, but I did. "She taught me how to keep score."

She set the ribbon back in place and moved to the next box, this one full of tarnished silver, the family crest engraved on every piece. "You could melt this down and retire."

"That's the plan," I said. "Eventually."

She closed the lid, then turned to face me. "Why do you keep all this?"

I didn't answer right away. I could feel her eyes on me, curious, open, expecting honesty. I hated how much I wanted to give it.

"It reminds me that nothing lasts," I said. "That no matter how much you build, how much you hoard, you end up here. Just another box in a pile."

She looked at me for a long time. Then she stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her skin. She reached out, slow, and grabbed my lapels, her hands sliding down as her gaze met mine.

"That's bleak, even for you," she said softly.

"It's the truth," I said.

She didn't let go. Her fingers lingered on the fabric, reaching up to trace the line of my collar. My breath caught, my heart thudded. For a second, I thought she might kiss me, right there among the skeletons of my ancestors. I didn’t mind the thought, let them curse me as I enjoyed the one woman I’d dared let see any part of me.

Instead, she smiled. "You don't have to be alone up here, you know."

My throat went tight. "I prefer it."

She raised an eyebrow. "Liar."

I wanted her so badly it hurt. I wanted to shove the boxes aside and lay her down on the bare planks, taste her again, lose myself in the heat and the mess of her. But I didn't. I couldn't.

Instead, I watched her drift to the window seat, where the light was strongest. She curled up, knees to chest, and pulled out her phone. For a minute, she tapped quietly, lost in her own world.

I busied myself with a box that had come apart at the seams, letting memories seep out, and cleaned up the papers and trinkets, pictures I hadn’t looked at since I was twelve, pretending not to watch her.

She texted, then dialed a number. I heard the soft, affectionate murmur of her voice as she spoke, words I couldn't make out, but the tone was intimate, relaxed. I felt a twist of jealousy, sharp and sudden, until I realized who she was talking to.

"No, it’s not a telemarketer, silly. Hi, Gram," she said, and I heard the smile in her words. "No, I'm fine. He's fine, too. It's just…different here."